Rapunzel, Rapunzel
by Misabel the Miserable
Summary: Loki had told Jane once that it had been her hair he'd not been able to look away from in the beginning. It was beautiful, the colour of burnished bronze ignited in the sunlight. This little mortal of Thor's was not what he had expected. But with that shy, unpresuming smile, he was hers. and although the wayward god couldn't fathom why, somehow he didn't mind at all. Lokane fluff.


**A/N: This is my first published fanfiction. Please be gentle, it's my first time!**

**Warning for mildly suggestive themes, but that's all. Just an adorable lot of Lokane fluff.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, I don't own Marvel, nor do I own anything to do with them. Apart from a Loki action figure, I own one of those.**

There was an old Midgardian children's tale she'd once told him about – how had it gone? _"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair." _That was it. Loki whispered it to himself now as he stood in the airy doorway of their chambers. Gossamer curtains billowed, elegant as swans rippling still water. The torches, enchanted by a spell of his own devising, held steady in the balmy breeze and cast their steady glow over the room; over her.

In the midst of an Asgardian summer, the sun was sinking below the infinite horizon, and Jane was brushing out her hair.

He had told her once; when they'd been lying skin to skin and their limbs still entwined like curling vines, that it had been her hair he'd not been able to look away from in the beginning. He'd still been reeling from her audacity – a mortal, and a tiny one at that, had struck him, _surprised _him – and he a god! But as the other Aesir prattled so solemnly with their plans for escape and death threats should he be treacherous, Loki studied this little mortal of Thor's. She was pretty, he supposed, and had a soft fragility about her that spoke of her fleeting, frantic lifespan. Her skin was browner and more breakable than the strong, creamy lustre of the Aesir women. And her hair – such a curious shade. Asgardian hair rarely came in anything but the most striking shades of gold, pitch or flame, but this diminutive Midgardian was furnished with hair that bore no other description that _brown_. She turned her head a little to peek self-consciously at his scrutiny, sunlight had caught the movement by igniting a sheen of burnished bronze upon the strands – and he'd been transfixed.

And this he had remained, for months. When Malekith was defeated and the Aether tempered, Loki watched as Jane and his mountain of a would-be-brother danced around each other tentatively, their touches infrequent and their conversation stilted. When they at last gave it up as a bad job and Jane had returned home to Midgard, still Loki watched. He would stand at the edge of the bridge into nothingness and share Heimdall's visions. He watched her hope and enthusiasm as she threw herself anew into her work, quick mind alive with theories and hypotheses that she made her duty and her pleasure to explore. He marvelled at her intelligence, the blaze of her temper when she was angered and the equally fierce affection she felt for those she cared for. He fell in love with her spirit, her compassion and the way she wore her solitude like a mantle to be borne, rather than a bitter shell to keep the world at bay.

Of course, he did not realise this until one night in the spacious, princely chambers to which he'd been reinstated, Loki found he could not sleep for want of her.

It was not mere lust – he had known that before, and this straining, yearning, tug at every fibre of his mind, body and soul was foreign to him. Jane, Jane, _Jane._ It was the only name he could think, and the only one he ever wanted to think again.

He had to see her. Had to _have_ her, in the most carnal and spiritual of ways.

When Jane found him seated quietly on one of her kitchen chairs as if he'd always been there, she'd smiled as if she had always expected him to be. With that shy, unpresuming smile; he was hers. And although the wayward god could not fathom why, somehow he didn't mind at all.

Yes, it had been her hair. It was so beautiful, and Loki would be ever grateful that when Indunn's apple had made her stronger and more durable, all that he had grown to love about her tiny, curved and nut-brown frame had remained. Often he would watch her still at the feasts and dances thrown in the lofty palace halls, fists clenching in jealous concern as her small form was overshadowed by looming Asgardian knights when they took a courteous hold upon her hand or waist. He would say little, more often than not, and Jane had grown accustomed to his intense and near-constant gaze, merely returning it with one of her own and an indulgent smile. Loki watched as the Asgardian women flitted about his wife like so many bigger, brighter butterflies in their glittering, auroral hues. Yes, he thought, that was right. If they were butterflies then Jane was a moth – smaller, softer in her quiet, enchanting iridescence.

Loki had told her that, later; when the revelling was finally given over to dozens of slumbering Aesir littering the great hall and he and Jane rested in each other's arms between sheets as fine as gossamer. She laughed from her place on his chest (he felt the movement echoing down his body and smiled), she said she'd always liked moths but for their self-destructive habit of flying into flames. Wrapping his arms more securely around her, he had pulled her body to be aligned with his, chests pressed together and nose to nose as her hair fell down about them; a silky curtain to blot out the world.

"I'll not let you fly into any flames, my Jane."

She had laughed again. "Perhaps that should have been in our wedding vows."

"I can swear it now, if you wish, my dear." And he did, with everything in him.

The call of his name pulled Loki back to the present. Jane had turned from the mirror, a hairbrush in one hand and the other stretched towards him. There was laughter in her eyes. "Come here, husband." She continued as he moved towards her, "Your young prince seems even more active than usual this evening. Feel?"

Kneeling, Loki paced a hand next to hers and both were silent, heads bent, for a moment. "Ah, yes," he murmured quietly, "I see what you mean." Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to the top of Jane's rounded belly. "Hush, little one. It's your father's turn to monopolise mama's attention. Besides, she's only a little Midgardian and you've quite tired her out," he finished slyly, glancing up in delight at Jane's indignant snort followed by her laughter, clear and rich as a nightingale's song.

"For that, you can be my handmaiden for the evening," she decreed loftily, holding out a hairbrush. Loki got to his feet with a long-suffering sigh.

"As you command, my lady wife." He watched her face in the mirror as her eyes slid shut from the pleasure of the brush pulling gently through her long, thick waves of burnished bronze hair.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair."

Jane opened her eyes and smiled at him.


End file.
